


More Than a Side Effect

by bodtany



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Jekyll and Hyde AU, M/M, buckle up this one's gonna be a rollercoaster, sooooo much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtany/pseuds/bodtany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is a good man. He runs an apothecary, only sells his homemade medicines for what his customers can afford. Yes, Marco Bodt certainly is a good man.<br/>So why, then, does he yearn to be bad?</p><p>Jean Kirschtein is a privileged boy. Anything he could ever want sits right at his finger tips. Simply name the price.<br/>So why, then, does he feel so helpless?</p><p>The potion Marco created was never supposed to hurt anyone, not really. But when his dreams of a better life begin to collect a body count, he realizes this "Other Self" has grown into more than a side effect.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marco

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! This is my first multi-chaptered fic, and I am just as excited as I am nervous. Please do not hesitate to give feedback. Every comment will make me a better writer, and hopefully help me to deliver better chapters. Comment comment comment!  
> And, of course, enjoy!

There’s a strange, simple happiness about plants. London’s got enough hustle and bustle in one day to last a man a lifetime, but here where the light filters through the foliage in the window and casts everything in a warm golden glow, there’s a sense of peace. Plants don’t need much, and I suppose if money weren’t an issue I’d feel as though they had some humbling lesson to teach. That isn’t to say I’m bitter over my position, no. Everyone gets their lot in life, and my herbs and remedies are far better than many, so I have no complaints. 

In fact, I rather like my little slice of heaven, albeit somewhat, well, dilapidated. These past few years have been rough, and the shop shows it. The wooden counter that encompasses the back end of the store is worn, scratches etched deep into the surface after years of use. The window panes are cracked, the exposed beams from which drying flowers hang appear questionable at best, and the golden letters just above the front door reading “APOTHECARY” are tired and paled from the sun. Still, the plants sitting on window sills or hanging from the ceiling seem lively, even cheerful. And if I’ve learned one thing from my years of experience as Marco the Medicine Man, it’s that half of a remedy is perspective. If I’m unhappy, customers are unhappy, and if customers are unhappy, they don’t feel better. Take any old bloke with a headache and give him a pill guaranteed to cure him, for example. If you smile and assure him it’s proven to work, you’re a miracle worker. If you hand him the pill and send him on his way, you’re a fraud. The same pill, same science, but different perspective. So, even on the rare occasion that it doesn’t feel really genuine, the smile stays on.

I’m roused from my thoughts by the tinny chime of the bell hanging just above my door. The top of a small blonde head is all that is visible as a man stumbles in, arms clutching a pot of calendulas large enough to conceal his face. Still, it would be impossible for me to mistake him.

“Armin!” I hasten out from behind the counter, but before I can move to help him with the pot of flowers, he’s grumbling, “I got it, I got it”, and placing them on a nearby stand in the window. As soon as the flora are settled, he combs a hand through his hair (now falling from its haphazard pony) and throws me a tired smile. 

“Long day?” I question, reaching over to pluck a stray petal from just above his ear. He nods in what I assume to be both gratitude and a response.

“I, uh, I lost another one today.” He sighs, head rolling toward the ceiling, eyes closed and brow furrowed. I’ve seen this expression before; he’s trying to feel sorry without getting attached. When you’re just about the only low-charging doctor an area has, you can’t afford to get attached. That guilt will only drag you down, and it becomes a cycle when more die because you couldn’t focus enough to save them. No, Armin’s got to keep his mind calculating and just sympathetic enough to sleep at night. It might not be pretty, but it’s the truth, and we’ve both learned it one way or another.

Maintaining the silence I know Armin needs, I walk back around the counter and take a seat. He opens his eyes a few moments later to find me scribbling a few notes in my book of inventory.

“So, was it cholera?” I ask, once he seems ready to speak again.

“Yes. By the time I got there, she was already on her deathbed. I think everyone knew there was nothing I could do. Even her.” Armin shakes his head, and the room lapses back into heavy silence. “I just—I just don’t know what to do about it.” He fumes, sinking into a wooden chair near the window. The outburst startles me enough for me to place my pen down and give Armin my full attention. “All my schooling and years of experience,” he continues, “and I’m still powerless against this damned disease!” He draws a long breath and exhales, slowly. Before Armin has time to second guess his sudden fit of anger, I decide to redirect the conversation and gesture to the calendulas. “Where did those come from?”

“Oh,” Armin’s brows shoot up in attention, as though he’d just remembered where he was. “Bert. I was on my way here when he quite literally ran into me, babbling something about Reiner being sick and that he was behind on deliveries—I don’t know. I took the flowers from him before he talked himself into a heart attack and agreed to pass them on to you. Haven’t an idea in high heaven what they’re for.”

I smirk and roll the petal that had fallen onto his hair between my fingers. “They help with little cuts and burns.” In a more playful tone, I add, “You could’ve used them when we were younger.”

Armin gasps in mock offense and rolls his eyes. “Please Marco, the last thing I need to be reminded of is a gang of pre-pubescent bullies. I’ve got grown-up things to worry about now.” His voice nearly falters towards the end, eyes flashing something dark, but he quickly recovers with a smile that looks only barely forced. “Anyhow,” he continues quietly, “I’d really ought to get going. God knows what comes out to play in this part of town once the sun sets.”

With a quick glance out the window, I realize that the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon. I’d be worried, too, if I were Armin. He comes off as a little frail, with the top of his head hardly reaching my chin and his big blue eyes giving him a childish look. Pickpockets are an annoyance during the day, but at night, well…they’re known to get violent, and no one wants to wind up as nothing more than the next juicy headline. Armin would be a walking target once the light leaks from the sketchier alleyways and the whores emerge from their hovels. Even with my slightly more muscular build, I’m grateful for the apartment just above my shop.

“I’ll see you soon, then.” I call as he walks towards the door. “And thank you for the calendulas!” Armin simply throws me a wave and a small smile over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.  
The shop falls quiet as the last rings emanate from the doorbell, and I maneuver my way out from behind the counter one last time to flip my ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’. Just as I reach the door, however, a young man locks eyes with me through the adjacent window. He looks drained, maybe even distressed, and—is that blood on his forehead? With a hasty glance behind him, the man hurries across the street towards me.

He doesn’t hesitate to enter as soon as I pull the door open, falling into the chair Armin had sat in just minutes before and gasping for breath. Seeing that he won’t be in any condition to explain himself for a few moments, I snatch a rag from under the counter and dip it into a still half-full watering can, then drag the stool behind my counter around and next to the man.  
He watches me in confusion as I roll my sleeves up to my elbows, and an expression of nearly comical bewilderment crosses his face as I lean in and begin to dab at the now drying blood running down his right temple.

“You going to introduce yourself, or..?” I ask, eyes never leaving the large abrasion near his hairline.

“Oh, my apologies.” His ears redden slightly as he replies, “My name is Jean Kirschtein.”

Satisfied with the state of his temple, I lean back and offer a hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jean. I’m Marco Bodt.” His palm is cold and sweaty, handshake too jerky, too nervous.

As I rise to retrieve some goldenseal oil from the racks of small glass bottles behind the counter, I take in Jean’s appearance for the first time. He must be wealthy; no one from these parts can afford an outfit like that. Though it’s a little tattered, his frock coat is clearly made of finer fabric than that which anyone I know can afford. There’s a streak of dirt across his high collar and cravat, but nothing like the years of grime that have practically laced themselves into my simple cotton button up. In Jean’s lap rests a black beaver-fur top hat. It’s enough to make my stomach twinge with the slightest hint of self-consciousness. I realize how filthy I must look, vest covered in tiny green smudges from my herbs, shirt stained with age and sweat, pants tinged darker near the bottoms from the muck of rainy London streets. I’m certainly no gentleman—at least, not the kind Jean’s used to.

“So, I must ask,” I pause for a moment to locate the oil I need before continuing, “how exactly did you manage to scrape yourself up like this?”

Jean sighs, and I recognize the exhaustion in it. “There was a group of young boys…I would have just given them some money, had they asked, but I suppose attacking a stranger was the much more exciting alternative.”

“Did they take anything?”

“My pocket watch, two dozen crowns, nothing that can’t be replaced.”

I stiffen. Two dozen crowns could pay food and rent for the next four months easily. And that pocket watch. Would have been gold, or at least silver, surely. That would have covered rent for at least half a year, and here Jean is acting as though he’d lost a deck of cards. Nothing that can’t be replaced. 

The amiable smile returns as I spin on my heel and stride back towards Jean, bottle in hand. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think? What was someone of your…standing…doing out?”

“Walking.” His reply practically screams ‘I don’t want to talk about it’, so I don’t push any further. Even the wealthy have their issues, and prying never works out in anyone’s favor. Besides, heaven knows what kind of business he might be getting into to afford that silk handkerchief. No, best not to ask. Instead, I dip two fingers into the oil and rub them gently over Jean’s abrasion.

We sit in fairly tense silence, only broken by the occasional hiss from Jean when I press too hard on his wound.

“Sir, are you a doctor?” He asks eventually, watching me with cautious eyes as I wrap a roll of gauze around his head.

“Not exactly. I never went to school, but I did train here at the apothecary as an apprentice. These days reasonably priced doctors are few and far between, and while I may not offer the complete professional experience, I’m all a lot of people can afford.”

“Do you ever treat anyone who is seriously ill?”

I suck in a breath. “Sometimes. It…it usually doesn’t work out.” That’s the best way to leave it, I suppose. Jean seems to understand, but before the quiet that inevitably follows grows uncomfortable, I pipe up, “All done”, and lean in to rip the gauze with my teeth.

It takes every drop of self-control in me not to laugh as Jean’s face goes blank for a moment, and then…is he blushing?

“Well, Mister Bodt,” he clears his throat, seemingly collecting himself, “thank you for your treatment. You’ve been too kind. I don’t suppose I could take a raincheck on my payment? The little thieves have left me penniless, unfortunately.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that!” I reply, placing my stool back behind the counter. “Today’s service was free of charge. That bottle was almost empty, anyhow.”

“Well, there must be something I can do.”

I lean back against the counter, head cocked in thought. 

“Pass the favor on.” Is my eventual response. “Someone out there needs it more than I do. And do try to get home in one piece.”

For all his fine fabric and upscale accent, Jean Kirchstein’s laugh is incredibly genuine.

“Yes, I’ll do my best.” He places the top hat back on his head and tilts it towards me. “Good night, Mister Bodt.”

“And to you, Jean.” For a moment, I question if using his first name was particularly wise on my part, but Jean only flashes me a small grin as he backs out of the apothecary and into the night.

In the quiet of the shop, I smile to myself. I do believe there is more to Mister Jean Kirschtein than what he lets on.


	2. Jean

My sister’s bedroom is a horrendous shade of powder blue. When my step-mother moved in, she insisted her first change to my father’s estate be the color of Madeleine’s room. The soft yellow my mother had chosen herself had to go. Little Maddie was too young to notice at that point, and I had never really given the revision much thought. Now, however, reclining in a large chair as Madeleine plays with her new rocking horse, it is all I can think about. What an awful, awful shade of blue.

“Jean-bo, must we go to Mama’s ball tonight?” Mama. I cringe. My step-mother’s achingly sweet urges to call her Mama haunt me, even today. Four years later and I still refuse to acknowledge her as anything other than Lorraine. Madeleine, on the other hand, has no memory of our real mother. This Mama is the only one she knows, outside of stories I tell her of our real mother when sleep is hard to find.

“Yes, Maddie, we must.”

“But I want to play, and there are never any other children at balls.” Madeleine pouts and slows her rocking to focus on my reaction. She’s clever enough to know something like manipulation, though she’s too young to really use it. Widening her big blue eyes and jutting out her lower lip, she looks so much like a child that it would be ridiculous to comply. But she knows when to pull which faces, and it takes more willpower than it should for me to firmly shake my head ‘no’.

“Eren will be there, and Mikasa. You like them, don’t you?”

Madeleine leans back on her horse, throwing her head backwards dramatically as she moans, “It’s not the same…”

At this, I can only chuckle. “I know, Maddie, but you still have to go. Come, it’s about time we start getting dressed anyhow.” Madeleine gives a little groan just to mark her discontent, and slides reluctantly off the rocking horse. Something heavy pulls at the back of my mind, an insistence that forcing Maddie to obey Lorraine will only hurt her, but I wave the thought away. I’ll face whatever guilt collects in the shoddy filter of my conscience tonight, when Madeleine isn’t watching me with those ever-observant eyes.

I poke my head out into the hallway, where a maid is hastening down the passage, and ask her to summon Annie. Stoic as she is, Annie seems to have developed a soft spot for my sister over the years. It isn’t entirely surprising, even for someone as stony as Annie. Madeleine has a knack for enchanting just about everyone she meets. 

With a light rap on the door, Annie announces her arrival. My polite smile as she enters is met with a cold, professional nod, quite unlike the softened look Madeleine receives. Annie holds up a little blue frock, which could have been a lovely dress if it weren’t so engulfed in lace, and murmurs something about it being Lorraine’s request that Maddie wear it tonight. I shudder and step out of the room before Annie can say anything more.

Maddie’s excited giggles bounce off the walls, following me all the way to my room at the end of the hall.

It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does—Lorraine, that is—especially when I can’t understand my exact problem with her. There are endless reasons; she’s controlling, she’s extravagant, she spends my father’s money like it’s her last day on Earth, yet none of these seem right. I flop back onto my bed and sigh. Maybe I’m just too sensitive, too aware of her presence. No one else seems to mind Lorraine, not even my father. And if I’m the only one who takes issue with her…maybe I’m the problem.

“Sir, are you ready to be dressed?” Wagner’s voice, slightly muffled by the door, startles me out of my daze.

“Yes.” I call in reply, standing with another tired sigh. The restless nights have begun to take their toll.

Wagner slips into my room, a freshly pressed tailcoat in hand, and I feel my face shift around a cordial smile.

~ ~ ~

An hour and a half later and I am carefully positioned near the arched, marble entryway, spine straight as a lamppost, amiably greeting guests. A large woman with as many chins as petticoats and a small, mousy man draping from her arm swears I’ve grown since our last encounter. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her in my life.

My rescue comes in the form of little Maddie, who finds me astoundingly quickly just to tug on the tails of my jacket and insist I dance with her. I lift her into my arms, grinning as she squeals and giggles, and ignore the few frowns we earn.

“The pleasure would be all mine, princess.” I bow my head dramatically. “Unfortunately, it appears as though someone is looking for you.” Madeleine follows my gaze across the ballroom, where her nurse Mina looks about the large room frantically. Knowing Maddie, there was most likely some trickery involved in her disappearance. “Save me a dance?” Madeleine nods as I place her back on the ground, her disappointed pout fading when I peck her cheek just before she runs off.

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect big brother, Kirschtein?” I start and turn to find none other than Eren Jaeger at my side, grinning wolfishly. His hair, usually curling to just below his ears, is slicked handsomely to one side, but it does nothing to soften the wild look about him. “Though I don’t believe she agrees…” He adds, and gestures to the odd couple I’d met at the door. They’re standing near a banquet table, the larger woman speaking to my father with an expression of distaste, her male companion nodding furiously and glancing in my direction every few seconds. ‘I’ll hear about that later,’ I think with a shudder. 

“It’s always a pleasure, Eren.” My deadpan tone (after years of being trained how to greet someone) does not deter him.

“Likewise.” Eren replies happily, piercing green eyes scanning the crowd of dancers. Our ballroom is large enough to accommodate Lorraine’s numerous friends and endless acquaintances. For someone like Eren, someone full of charisma and energy, it’s a goldmine. For someone like me, with little to say and not enough wit to say it well, it’s a cage.

“Are you going to ask anyone to dance?” He asks, still observing the guests as one waltz comes to a close and another one begins.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” A beat of silence, then Eren smirks and nods towards the swarm of dancers. “What about that one? Pretty little thing, don’t you think?”

I follow Eren’s gaze to find a petite blond woman, surely no older than twenty years of age, smiling politely as she twirls with a man at least a foot taller than her. She’s gorgeous, with her delicate build, big blue eyes, and golden locks framing her face like a halo. It’s clear why her original partner frowns and stalks away after another man steps in and asks her to dance.

“Did she have her coming out?” I ask in, for lack of a better word, awe. “I would remember a face like that…”

“Oh, she did, but not here. She’s American. Came to England a few months ago for the first time. Her father comes from money, but apparently he plans to marry her off to a wealthy Englishman. Word has it he was involved in an embezzlement scandal in the states and wants her to marry into money in case he loses everything.”

“Oh? And whose word is that, exactly?”

“My good man, you know as well as I do that all information with a price tag on the end of it is strictly confidential.” Eren’s tone is too polite, too formal, and I side-eye him suspiciously as he continues, “To give away one of my little birds would be morally incorrect of me. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the matter of that ravishing brunette to attend to.”

Just like that, he saunters away towards some wildly unfortunate girl. 

With another glance at the mass of dancers, I realize the blonde woman has wandered off somewhere, leaving a good portion of men speaking dejectedly to one another. Madeleine is probably playing tricks on her nurse—yes, there she is. I spot Maddie near the center of the ballroom, running literal circles around poor Mina, who’s trying to keep her out of the way of the more distinguished guests. I suppose there’s no time like the present to save Mina from having a panic attack.

Keeping my eyes locked on the duo, I make my way across the marble floors to pull Madeleine away for a while. However, I’ve only taken a few steps when a hand falls on my shoulder, and a deep murmur of “Son” in my ear sends a tingle down my spine. I turn with the best smile I can manage plastered on my face, knowing full well what waits behind me. 

My father is not particularly large, nor does he appear brutish. But something in the way he carries himself, in the coolness of his voice when he speaks, as though he already knows what you’re planning to say and why it’s wrong, something tips him over into dangerous territory. Being a businessman, he’s practiced in the art of manipulating with his words alone. Every conversation with my father is a minefield, a game of chess. You must know exactly what to say, and when, or else you might as well have said nothing at all. 

I open my mouth, readily armed with an explanation for my previous behavior with Madeleine, but my father interrupts before I can even draw a breath.

“I want you to meet someone.” 

Confused, my brows pinch together and I cock my head, sure to manage a brief, “Y-yes, of course,” before he grows impatient for a response.

My father turns away from me and waves someone towards us. After the slightest pause, the American woman steps forward from the crowd, face void of expression.   
The air shifts as she approaches us. Something is off.

“May I introduce Miss Krista Reiss. Miss Reiss, this is my son, Jean.” We curtsey and bow accordingly, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Reiss.” My smile is cold, unfeeling. Wrong, wrong, something’s wrong.

“The pleasure is all mine.” There is no pleasure in her voice. There is nothing. Both of us face each other like statues, well-versed in the game of putting on masks and costumes to please those around us. She knows something, I can tell by the way her eyes shift between my father and I. Whether she’s expectant or apprehensive, or something else entirely, I cannot say.

“Miss Reiss’s father and I have been in contact.” My father takes his time, carefully phrasing each sentence, either unaware or ignorant of the air so thick I think I might suffocate. “We think you two would make an excellent match. How do you feel about a spring wedding?”

Oh.

Krista winces, almost imperceptibly, and lowers her gaze to the ground. A wedding, of course. The pieces slide into place in my mind. Her father needs a safety net of money, my father wants to expand his industry overseas. A marriage is only logical. It’s not personal, just business, a tradeoff, a transaction.

My father has just declared checkmate, and I didn’t even know we were playing.

“Well, son, what have you to say?”

I scramble for a coherent response. What have I to say? I’ve just met the girl, and now I’m to marry her…and in less than a year! Krista, for the first time, looks me directly in the eyes, expression drawn. And yet, there’s a glint of hope in the curve of her brow, as though she’s still unsure of what I’ll say. She doesn’t want me to agree, she wants me to refuse, she wants—

“I say Miss Reiss is a lovely girl, and she will make an even lovelier wife.”

I swallow the bitter taste those few words leave in on my tongue, swallow the guilt that begins to bubble over when Krista’s face falls and my father bursts into laughter. Swallow, swallow, swallow it all.

“That is just what I wanted to hear.” My father places a hand on my shoulder and offers an expression that I suppose is meant to look like pride, should anyone be watching us. But I know the truth, and that is that my father has never been proud of me. He wasn’t proud when I ranked top of my class in boarding school, wasn’t proud when I stood next to my mother’s grave and followed his instructions not to cry, wasn’t proud when I began raising Madeleine because he couldn’t be bothered to. Agreeing to marry into a new business opportunity will not change that. 

“Come, Krista, I want you to meet my wife.” He takes poor Krista by the arm and turns to lead her away, leaving the image of those falsely loving eyes burning in my mind. I feel a bit like I might vomit.

This feeling is not helped much by the fact that Eren sidles up to me as soon as my father and Krista disappear into the crowd. His mouth curls into an idiotic smirk, and he cocks his head towards where Krista had been standing.

“So, I see you met the lady of the hour.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” I spit, patience wearing thinner by the second.

“Knew?” Eren juts out his lower lip and, for a split second, looks nearly identical to Madeleine when she begs for something. But his face twists, more scheming, more teasing, until all resemblance to her vanishes and he has more likeness to a snake.

“Wants her to marry a wealthy Englishman…” I mutter, dragging my eyes from his deceitfully innocent face. “Damn you, Eren.”

He tuts his tongue, but I can hear the sly grin even in that. “Language, Jean. Wouldn’t want a foul mouth to make your fiancé uncomfortable, would you?”

Just as I’m deciding whether I’d prefer to feel the impact of my fist against his jaw or his stomach, our attention is diverted to a stern voice from behind Eren.

“Enough, Eren. You’re embarrassing yourself.” None other than Mikasa Ackerman steps forward, placing a hand on Eren’s shoulder and guiding him to the side to place herself between us.

“Miss Ackerman,” I greet her with half a bow. Formalities mean less when you grew up together. “May I say you look simply striking tonight?” It’s no lie. Her gown is a deep blue, like the nadirs of the ocean, mysterious but simple nonetheless. The neckline cuts almost straight across from one shoulder to the next, high enough not to raise too many brows, yet low enough to compliment her graceful, curving frame. The contrast of her skin, pale as the moon, against the darkness of her dress is stark and lovely.

“You may.” She replies, reciprocating my bow with a slight curtsey. “Thank you.”

We lapse into something of an awkward silence; Eren appears engrossed in watching the lively waltz (for fear, I suspect, of Mikasa’s biting reprimands), Mikasa herself wears a face of neither pleasure nor distaste, and I, as is my habit, opt to keep quiet and wait for someone else to make the first move. 

“So,” Eren ventures finally, “what was Miss Reiss like?”

Somewhat doubtful of his intentions, I glance at him quickly, but he’s lost the devious look about him. His eyes shine with a curiosity that is more authentic. Youthful, in a way.

“She was quiet, for the most part.” The less people who know the truth of our engagement, the better, I decide. Eren and his informants will pose no threat, all of them accustomed with the practice of keeping secrets when they need to. The last thing Krista and I need is to become the latest piece of gossip. If we can pass it off as a happy coincidence that our fathers knew each other, that we grew fonder of each other than anyone expected as time wore on, maybe we’ll…I don’t know. Maybe we’ll learn to love each other, or at least keep from hating one another. Maybe we’ll keep ourselves afloat, even if we’re gasping for breath.

“She seems rather timid.” Remarks Mikasa, in that tone of hers that makes it nearly impossible to see what she’s really thinking. Is she concerned? Is she being judgmental? If I hadn’t grown up with Mikasa, if I hadn’t watched her hold Madeleine as a baby with the softest smile, if I hadn’t witnessed her calmly and lovingly tend to Eren when he was seven and scraped his knee in a fight, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. But I did grow up with her, and I’ve seen this face enough to search for that little shift in her jaw and—yes, there it is. She tries to mask it, but Mikasa is a nurturer at heart, and she hides her worry as a mother hides her fear; well, but rarely well enough.

While her facade may fool everyone else, it does not fool me. Mikasa knows something is wrong.

I suppose I could drop all the smokescreens now—there’s no use if everyone in the conversation knows. Then again, we are in public, and the public is always watching.

“Do you know,” I turn to face my friends with the most genuine smile I can muster, “I don’t believe I’ve had anything to eat all night. If you’ll excuse me.”

Even with my back turned, I feel their eyes on me. What they’re thinking, I can’t say. Perhaps they’re worried for me, or are simply confused. Perhaps they pity me.

Regardless, the best course of action is, in my experience, to act as though everything is alright. Whether or not things will work out is out of my hands; what I can control is how much everyone around me knows. It’s like lighting a match, really. One flick and my face lifts, posture relaxed, eyes warm and responsive. Across the ballroom now, I watch as Eren and Mikasa do the same. It’s almost too natural, how we put on these veneers, bury ourselves deeper and deeper until all that anyone can see is the well-polished shell. 

Wait—no, that’s not right. Who am I to complain, after all? There are many, I’m sure, who would give anything to feel as safe as I have my entire life, as warm and healthy and well-fed. I’ve lived a life of privilege, a life most only dream of. To be unhappy…it’s ridiculous, it’s selfish, when I have everything I could ever want. No, of course I’m glad to have the chance to marry such a lovely young woman. Of course we’ll look at each other like we’re the last humans in existence, like we are all that matter, and of course I will love every minute of it. Of course.

~ ~ ~

As I stare blankly at the ceiling that night, too restless to sleep, I mouth the words like a silent, desperate prayer.

I’m happy.  
I’m happy.   
I’m happy.

 

 

I’m not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, or just read the last chapter. Feedback is always greatly appreciated!
> 
> Please note that when Jean says "coming out", he's not referring to Krista coming out of the closet. In the past (and sometimes still today) a woman's coming out was a ball essentially meant to show her off as a potential wife. Perhaps you've heard of a debutante? Same thing.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, I hope you enjoyed!


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